Dyadic
by pencil-fetish
Summary: It was as though he had been bisected; the second half of him was deemed weak and broken open like shattered porcelain, and he drowned in the desolation. Rated M for suggested sexual content, violence, and abusive/unhealthy relationships. Part of the Bitterverse (Human AU.)
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I wrote probably 80% of this while I was too tired to think. In retrospect, I really should have waited until morning, considering that this is just a huge mess of introspection and whiskey worship.

Enjoy your (almost) 1,500 words of unbeta'd alcoholism.

* * *

Lately, he had found himself craving it.

Bad Cop had been warned to go easy on the sauce; didn't dance well with his new pills, the company had said, months ago, but the musty, dank promises of liquor's thick oblivion seemed to compliment his hollowed persona more than ever these days. He told himself he needed it for more than just the respite that he knew came with inebriation, somehow indoctrinating himself with the certainty that he needed the alcohol for more than just escape. The slick, coppered tasted of blood would sometimes shimmy up his throat without warning, and the alcohol served as a mask. His breath would smell of the syrupy null after a few minutes, and it did raise some eyebrows, but, hell, it beat reeking like a bloody corpse. It was useful, yes. It kept him safe.

Morning had only just broken on Bricksburg's choppy horizon, sun glittering and frayed around the edges, but Bad Cop's gut had already begun to writhe with the embers of side effects. He took a quick swig from a nearby bottle of Jack Daniel's, hoping to curb the twists of the messy slide of ash and bone toiling about inside of him. Turning his face to the sun, he curled his fist and rubbed at his eyes, scrubbing sleep from them as best as he could.

A few moments passed, and as though a puzzle piece had slipped from the universe, he found himself wobbling into the shower, careworn palms met with the tarnished knobs of temperature-control as they slid down the walls. He didn't really remember tottering in (or stripping, for that matter), but he was plenty accustomed to that. The blackouts hadn't vanished with the rest of him, though they were more just lapses of thought and reality and attention than anything else. He switched the faucet on, frowning softly at a crooked discrepancy in the wall's tile before angling the shower head down to wet his dark hair.

Tepid water cascaded over Bad Cop's face in minikin tributaries, and he speculated on what was to come through a vague, tipsy haze, fingers spreading across his scalp, nails digging into the yesterday's grime. The last months had been geared primarily towards stabilizing his medication, and when he wasn't psychoanalyzing himself to better the effects of the meds, he was counteracting every ounce of the arduous work by capitulating to whiskey's bidding, sliding into a cool nothingness most every night. He would sometimes ponder if bending to his own weakness was all worth it, but when he did, he was usually too hammered to care all that much. So the thoughts were passive, apathetic in a loose sense of the word, and something told him it was unhealthy, but the silent voice came only at the penultimate moment before sleep came.

He usually didn't recall it the next day.

Bad Cop liked to piece together arguments in the empty morning light sometimes, weighing and outweighing the benefits and damages of the bottles of Beam piled Octan-high in the wastebin under the kitchen sink. He had a troublesome propensity to tip the scale in favor of his xanthous poison, just the same as every addict; after all, it swept his dreams and nightmares under the rug, just out of sight, quietly folded up his desire to dream and to function, dousing traumatic images and leaving them as the fluttering scraps of bland ash that filled his nose and his brain. It pressed a sort of soothing nothingness onto him, and that was just fine. He'd rather hack out a bit of forgotten charcoal dust than be scorched on live coals any day, and considering that desire and will had brought him nothing but trouble, he was content to lie suspended in liquor's mitigating sleep.

Of course, that didn't change the abhorrent effects it had on his body, but any junkie can deny the harm coming to them until the breaking point has long since passed. It's essentially what they're best at.

The lukewarm water tapered further into a cool stream as the minutes ticked by, and, taking that as his cue to truly start the day, Bad Cop twisted the water off and groped for a towel, calloused hands eventually finding a worn, white one, trimmed along the edges with orange. He fumbled to loop it around his back, folding one end over the other against his pelvis and tucking the fabric in to hold it in place. He scuffed his feet on the bedraggled bathmat before stepping out into the hall and taking a quick left back to the kitchen, casting about for the bottle of hard liquor until he found it lying supine in a pool of sun. Bad Cop brought it to his lips with one hand and mussed his hair with the other, thoroughly satisfied.

The sting of the light-warmed drug was welcome, precious, necessary to assuage the anxiety constantly building in his abdomen, and so Bad Cop gulped it down in earnest, like it was lemonade, like it was easy on the stomach and the tongue. It was all a deception; the bottles quenched just as well as devil's fire, edged as smoothly down as a conglomerate of broken glass and water, but Bad Cop had a terrible penchant to believe lies, a disgustingly inescapable proclivity for convincing himself that everything was okay and that he knew what was right and wrong.

Kragle had changed him.

It was supposed to, of course; that was its purpose. But regardless, it was as though he had inflicted a brutal schism onto himself, torn an unsubtle rift through his person, and it hurt. It ached every day, much duller than it would be without his self-medication, but still omnipresent, a barbed reminder that he was half the man he used to be.

The sun had risen considerably higher, and Bad Cop wondered absently for a moment how long he had been in the shower. He decided that he didn't care.

Considering that a morning lull still enshrouded him, he rubbed at his face and ambled over to the kitchen sink, filling a pot with water and setting it to boil, drifting through thought as it did. He spooned coffee grounds and milk in, stirring idly until the water took on its trademark sienna tone.

Bad Cop decided that coffee probably tasted better with hard liquor; he spooned in a few dollops of Bushmills and capped it off with a teaspoon of Beam. Sinking into the couch, Bad Cop leafed through a nameless book, watching as the muddy letters swam off the page. It looked like they were fleeing for a more promising reality.

He had to go to work today, but it could wait. He needed to get himself together, think a bit. He had a few hours.

He took a quick gulp of coffee, smacking his tongue on the bitterness, briefly curious as to how he was still conscious. Perhaps he had grabbed some bottles of weaker proof. There was no way of knowing.

The seams of the passing hours bulged with whiskey-worship, even after the coffee cups were drained to the dregs and the letters of the pages of every book in his home had meandered off to greener pastures. Bad Cop curled his hand and rubbed at the stubble garnishing his jawline, checking his watch. Three in the afternoon. Time to go.

Life moved too fast.

The second world-lapse of the day. He wasn't all that sure why he was on the road, only knew that it was the path he travelled to Octan every day. The world was tinted slate, and Bad Cop was startled for a moment. His hands slid up to scrub at his eyes, only to bump into his flip-ups. That explained it.

Buckets and buckets of boggy emotion emptied onto him with every step he took. The walk was short, but he was soaked by the time he reached the conglomerate, standing in a mire of unpleasant feelings. Bad Cop was a stumbling falsehood, grasping for hold without purchase, hiding at the bottom of a bottle, and he knew it. Somewhere deep inside, he knew it. He just didn't consciously think it. He was always, always immersed in his blissful fiction. Some days he doubted. Others? Not so much.

But that morning, he had struggled so much to drag himself from his bed. His mind was so focused on thoughts of his drugs, liquid and pill both. He lifted his head to the clouds, searching for any sign in their alabaster faces that he truly was doing something correctly, any verification that he wasn't the only one who thought he was all right.

No answer was given.

And so he wiped his eyes, set his jaw, and strode inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: This is actually quite sub-par, my apologies.

* * *

His stomach dropped as he pushed through the double-doors, and he recalled immediately the sensations of crushing, fierce intimidation that had come with stepping into Octan as of late. Even in the lobby, plenty of people chattered and milled about in small, cliquish bands, discussing mergers, analyzing stocks, gossiping about coworkers. Months ago, he wouldn't have given it much thought, but things were different. The faint thrum of noise seemed to roar in his ears. He didn't want to be here. But he was, he had to be, and there was nothing that would change that. Losing his mind wouldn't do anyone any good.

Swallowing the stone in his throat, Bad Cop carded his way through the afternoon rabble, hastily mashing the elevator button. He slid inside, shut the doors, descended to the fourth underground floor. The twenty seconds he spent silently braced against the back wall were pure bliss, and virtually unbroken when the doors slid open. One of the many benefits of working on a virtually unoccupied floor.

Taking care not to bump into anyone, he quietly stowed himself into his barely-touched private office, switching on the light and easing into his chair, flinching as it complained under him. It was a simple office, not much to write home about; no windows, one door, one desk, one chair. His "personal" computer was really owned and managed by the corporation, naturally, but it was finespun nonetheless; sleek, only a year or two off the assembly line.

He hadn't been notified about any particular assignments scheduled for today, and thus, the only thing he could really do was research; and so Bad Cop roused the computer tower beneath the desk and jiggled the mouse to wake the screen, tapping his foot as it rebooted. There was a quiet catharsis about the whole affair. He had done this many times before Kragle. It consoled him, albeit briefly, with thoughts of simpler times.

The day oozed along sluggishly, agonizing in its semblance of perpetuity. Bad Cop wasn't hungry, but he needed something to do besides gnash his teeth and toggle tabs between databases, waiting for the clock to signal his departure.

There _was_ a vending machine down the hall. He closed out the tab he was scrolling through and stood, pushing his flip-ups up the bridge of his nose and trudging out into the hall. He tugged a rumpled dollar from his jacket pocket, smoothing it with his thumbs as he trekked down the mundane layout of office space. Most of the rooms were empty, he recalled, but no one really worked down here, so he supposed that was decently logical.

Giving the disgruntled bill one more rub, stretched against the side of the machine, he slid it in and allowed his mind to drift as the bulky device swallowed his cash.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Three. He rubbed his eyes, drowse pervading his consciousness.

"Hey, sport."

Bad Cop's breath hitched as he felt a hand land on his shoulder, startling, weighty, threatening. He shifted his eyes from the coin slot over to the reflection in the machine's pane of glass, and he felt his body flush cold. Of course it was Business. Why would he have been blessed with the appearance of anyone else?

"Hello, sir," he muttered, teeth finding the inside of his lower lip. "How's the day treating you?"

"Fine, fine," he chuckled. "Just lovely. But we're not here to talk about me, champ. I'm checking in on _you_."

The machine spat a bag of potato chips down into the receptacle. Odd. Bad Cop hadn't remembered purchasing those.

Business continued, "What? Something the matter, Bad Cop?"

"No, sir."

"Kragle's working?"

"I think so, sir."

He arched an eyebrow. "You sure? I'm not getting a real heavy sense of conviction."

"I'm very sure, sir. Working excellently."

"You seen the other guy lately?"

Bad Cop withdrew the snack methodically, measuring his movements. "No, sir. Gone, I think."

Business clapped a hand on his back. "Fantastic. I knew the guys in the lab department had their stuff down. But," he frowned, voice dropping in volume, "if everything was working like it _should_, you wouldn't be loitering in front of a vending machine. I don't remember informing you that lethargy was a side-effect of these pills."

Breathe, he told himself. He would be safe if he remained subservient, nearly monosyllabic. Simple was best. Simple was safe. "I don't understand, sir."

Business scoffed. "What do you mean, 'you don't understand'? You've been standing out here for ten minutes."

"Ten?"

"No, of course not. I just said ten, so I must not mean ten."

Bad Cop didn't turn from the machine; the wobbly reflection of Business's face had twisted into a much less amicable figure. The man's brow was creased, mouth curving down in a grimace. His moods could reach levels of polarity nearly as severe as Bad Cop's, really.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly, not sure what else to say. It wasn't like this sort of thing was new. His attention would lapse all the time, and it wasn't even Good Cop's fault anymore. He knew it.

"You're sorry."

"Yes, sir."

A colossal sigh collided with the back of Bad Cop's neck, and he tried to keep himself calm. "And," Business elevated his voice just a tad, then crushed it down to a near whisper, "I suppose you're going to tell me that this isn't your fault."

"I wasn't planning on saying that, no-"

Business rolled his eyes and grasped Bad Cop's shoulders, turning him around. Clearly sick of not being looked in the eyes. "Come on, buddy, I employed you because you had the capability to do what I asked you to. You haven't _lost_ that skill, have you?"

Bad Cop shook his head. Business released him, stepping back a few paces and observing the impact he had just made on the other man.

After seeing little visible effect, he made his move to leave. Bad Cop said nothing.

"Oh," he began offhandedly, back still turned, "by the way, your probing from a few months back actually wound up helping. We've got leads on the locations of a few previously unknown Master Builders, and we're poised to snag the ones running that pastry shop down the street. I'm counting on you to crack them once we get our hands on them."

Bad Cop winced, nausea percolating through his body. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Good."

And like that, he was gone.

The last of Bad Cop's work hours shriveled up, and, no more than a few moments after he gathered himself, he just as soon found himself wrapped up in his coat, on the same road as that morning. The streets of Bricksburg were silent, unnerving. Bad Cop kicked at a pebble, just to allow some semblance of noise to fill his ears; not two seconds later, it veered right and clattered into an alley, and he was again surrounded by a disturbing, thick stillness. Fantastic.

The nine-o'-clock lull whispered saccharine threats of the past into his ears, wind ruffling some stray bits of hair, and he picked up the pace. Bricksburg wasn't exactly a metropolis; it had a small college, some parks, a synagogue, two churches, and a few small family-owned storefronts (naturally, with Octan overshadowing them, the income they reaped undoubtedly tended to be on the small side). Crime wasn't an absurd issue, and any hostile situations that arose were silently dealt with either by the BPD, or, more commonly, Bad Cop himself. He didn't feel guilty for doing his job; it could be grisly if things got out of hand (which they did, more often than anyone cared to admit), but it gave him purpose. It gave him what everyone searched for in life, and the fact that he had found something that others struggled to ferret out for their entire lives was viciously satisfying.

That didn't mean that he _wanted_ to do exactly what he did, per se, but after ten years, most of his routines and moods had already been perpetuated, cemented, and a long-time habitué never can just _stop_.

Another few beats passed. He was at his door, palm resting on the evening-cooled knob. Must have blacked out again. It was worrisome from a certain standpoint, but he couldn't get himself too panicked over it. Probably for the best.

Ducking into his home, he secured the door and, as an afterthought, twisted the deadbolt until he heard its reliable click. Lights were flicked on and off indecisively. Doors were opened and closed. What to do, what to do, what to do. His fingers closed tight around a bottleneck, and Bad Cop slid beneath his bedsheets, counting the seconds, the minutes, the sips. The magnitude of his job's morbidity had never been more than he could handle, not until he had started using Kragle. He tried to think about what that meant, but the ideas slipped through his fingers like fine sand through a sieve. And, after lying prone and thoughtless for several moments, he abandoned his scarred, derelict body beneath the sheets in favor of drifting through the neutrality of sleep.

And, occasionally, he would cast his eyes down to earth just to affirm that he still lived.


End file.
